Blind Beauty (3 page)

They didn't eat until Maurice came home, and she was starving. After a bit she went downstairs – a grand, stupid staircase that took up half the house, but was very impressive when you came in at the front door. She went into the kitchen where Mrs Tims was preparing the dinner. Mrs Tims was a sour old stick – nobody nice ever stayed.

She said, “You've done it again, then? Got yourself
expelled
.” She hissed the word.

“Excluded,” Tessa corrected her. She went to the biscuit tin and helped herself. “What's for supper?”

“You'll see soon enough.”

The kitchen was like a clinic, shining white and horribly clean. The floor was of white marble. Mrs Tims, an elderly and rather untidy person herself, looked out of place in the grandeur. She let it down quite badly. Tessa thought of remarking on this, but decided otherwise. She opened a cupboard, took out a bottle of cooking sherry, and fetched a glass.

“Don't you touch that, my girl!”

Tessa poured it out and drank it. It tasted horrible but felt nice. She wished she had a cigarette. She knew Mrs Tims couldn't stop her. Mrs Tims just set her face and pretended not to know.

“It's all right. I'm not going to get drunk.”

“I don't know where you're heading for, my girl, but I can tell you one thing – it's trouble.”

“I'm not your girl, thank God. And I don't mind trouble.”

“You've got the devil in you, that's for sure.”

“Better than boring old Jesus.”

“That's a dreadful thing to say! That's shocking, that is.”

Tess sighed heavily (rudely) and departed. She went into the living room – a vast, characterless place with balloon-like armchairs upholstered in cream dralon. Her mother was painting her nails, having spread out
The Sun
in case she dropped a spot. The furniture would be much improved with red spots, Tessa thought.

“I'm starving. How long have we got to wait?”

“Not long, probably; he's only got to come from Newbury.”

“I hope he won, that's all.”

But even when he won he only set his lips, no doubt wishing he had put on a bigger bet. Betting was a mug's game, Declan always said. If you won you wished you'd put on more, and if you lost you wished you hadn't put on any at all. It hadn't stopped him wasting his money, all the same.

“Don't play him up, Tessa. Just keep your head down. You know how it is.”

“Yes, yes, yes. Just like you.”

Myra bit her lip and did not reply. Tessa did not feel sorry for her, but despised her for what she had got herself into.

They heard the sound of a car on the gravel, the door slamming, the key turning in the front door. Myra jumped up and the nail varnish bottle shot up in the air. Tessa lunged forward and caught it just in time. Myra went white.

“Oh Tessa, oh my God!” she moaned.

“Mum! Don't!” For a moment Tessa was anguished. As if it mattered! Her mother had turned into a stupid dummy.

“Don't bait him, Tessa, just don't.”

Tessa was tempted again to give her mother a hug and say, “Of course I won't,” to put her at ease, but it was no longer in her nature. It would have been a lie in any case.

The door opened and the two of them stood hastily to attention like children at school. Tessa felt the comparison and scowled. Sometimes her courage failed her.

“I see our delinquent daughter is back,” Maurice greeted them.

The obvious reply – “I'm not your daughter” – sprang to Tessa's lips but she swallowed it back for her mother's sake.

“Did you have a good day, dear?” Myra gibbered.

“Not particularly. Sometimes I wonder about Raleigh's competence.”

Raleigh was her stepfather's racehorse trainer. His stable was quite near, just over the downs opposite, and the horses could be seen at exercise in the valley early in the morning. It was a very smart stable, the most expensive in the land. (Of course.)

“Oh dear.”

Myra knew everything about racing, but dared not venture the obvious opinion – that racing was a capricious sport and it didn't do to lay blame. She guessed that Maurice must be an extremely unpopular owner. Trainers liked owners who took the rough with the smooth, who praised and encouraged, and lost sportingly.

“No one has a better reputation,” she said. “What more can you do?”

“What indeed?” said Maurice sarcastically.

“I'll tell Mrs Tims to serve the dinner.”

Myra departed.

Maurice turned his gaze to Tessa and raked her up and down as if she were the disappointing horse. Straight to the knacker's! she thought. But it wasn't a joke. It was like being flayed alive.

“So? The bad penny's back again? You're getting to the end of the line, Tessa, aren't you? Pushing your luck?”

“What luck?” she said, trembling. “With you for a stepfather?”

“Believe me, you'll know it when the luck fails.”

He turned his back and marched out of the room.

Tessa felt rage shake her. She wanted to spit at him. The pig! Luck! What luck had ever come her way? Losing her real father, getting him in exchange? Being given a home in his foul mansion? She'd be happier living on the street!

Well, perhaps she would. Run away. She tossed her head defiantly. But even to her, this time, it did seem like the end of the line.

Over dinner she said nothing. She watched him overtly: his grubby lips taking in the food, the grooves running down from his squidgy nose like drains, widening and closing to the grinding of his yellow teeth. Reptilian eyes, flicking up and down, missing nothing. Thinning black (dyed?) hair trained over the scalp and held with something sticky that smelled of… ugh! Tessa shivered. Jasmine – or was it drains again? Everything about him repelled her. Drains, that was a good name for him. Full of foul matter.

“Greevy will be home at the weekend,” he said to Myra. “I was talking to Raleigh this afternoon about the possibility of Greevy working there. As assistant trainer,” he added, before Myra could think of mucking out.

Myra's eyebrows shot up in surprise, but all she said was, “How nice.”

“He doesn't know anything,” Tessa said.

“Assistant trainers learn,” Maurice said heavily.

Tessa guessed that Raleigh was not in a position to turn down Maurice's suggestion. Maurice had six horses in training with him and two of them were very good ones. No trainer could bear to lose good horses – and Maurice, for sure, would take his horses away and send them to another trainer if Raleigh offended him. Putting up with Greevy would be the lesser of two evils. Poor Mr Raleigh! He was quite a nice man and clever with difficult owners like Maurice.

“We've also got to decide what to do with you, madam. You needn't think you're going to lie on your bed and listen to pop music all day.”

“Like Greevy,” Tessa said.

Greevy was thick and had no interests in life beyond music and fast cars. But at eighteen he had already lost his driving licence.

“You're twelve. You've got to have an education, I suppose, but God knows who'll take you on now. There must be a sin-bin somewhere where kids like you can be dumped. I'll have to ask around.”

A sin-bin… Tessa thought that sounded interesting. Her spirits rose a fraction.

But at the thought of Greevy coming home in two days' time they sank again. Running away was the only option left if no sin-bin was forthcoming, and where on earth was there to run to?

M
aurice had no luck with his sin-bin. The nearest was forty miles away, with no vacancies. Because Maurice was so annoyed at this failure Tessa was pleased, although she had been quite optimistic about her future in a sin-bin.

Perhaps getting the disgusting Greevy installed at Down Valley racing stables gave him ideas, for he said, “Good hard work might do you no harm. Burn off some of that temper. You won't have to go to school again until next September and between now and then you might as well get your butt off a chair and do something for your keep. On a farm perhaps.”

Tessa curled her lip. Who was going to employ a twelve-year-old tractor driver? There were no children's jobs on farms any more, only high-tech stuff. He didn't know anything about farming, in spite of owning half a dozen.

Greevy was used to getting on under the wing of his rich father. He seemed to consider it his right. Maurice had bought his school a new playing field when Greevy once got into the sort of trouble that Tessa was kicked out for, and nothing more was said. Tessa had fantasized at times about Greevy being nice and their having good times together, and every time he came home she hopefully looked for signs of improvement in him, but each time her hopes were cruelly dashed.

“Jeez, you going to be underfoot all the time?” he remarked when he arrived home and heard of her “exclusion”.

Tessa did not deign to reply.

She supposed there was very little chance of Greevy improving with age. He was spoilt rotten by his father but – unlike his father – he was quite good-looking. Tall and dark and gangly, he might one day be elegant in an actorish sort of way. He could turn on charm if he wanted something, but it wasn't the real thing. For now, he was really boring.

Myra said, “His mother, Maurice's first wife, died of cancer.”

“A happy release,” Tessa said.

“I wish you wouldn't say things like that! She was a dancer. Really pretty. I've seen photos of her.”

“Maybe he treated her better than he treats you. You shouldn't stand for it, Ma. The way he talks to you.”

“I don't want for anything, do I?”

Myra was hopeless, Tessa thought. Want for anything? Only affection, respect, kindness, a laugh or two… you name it. But Tessa didn't follow it up.

She could not bear the atmosphere in the house, the vapid, ugly spaces inhabited by people who were all miserable, stranded miles away from jolly Tescos and Marks and Spencers and McDonalds, from people who laughed and loved each other in their tacky semi-detacheds. This grand place was characterless and grim, like a prison. It
was
a prison.

She went out the back way and walked across the lawn and stood staring out over the valley. There was a deep stone ha-ha which stopped the cows coming in, and standing on the edge of it she had a view of grassland sweeping away below her to the chalk stream that swirled rapidly down the bottom. Large tracts of woodland covered the far side, interspersed with fields of corn that were beginning to yellow for summer. It was a tourist's vista, like out of an AA book.

She sat on the ha-ha, swinging her legs. If she ran away, where would she run to? Oh Declan! But even if she found him, he might not want her any more. He had never chased after her when she left, after all. She was too young to rent a flat, even if she had the money, and if she lived on the street she was bound to be picked up as under age. She passed for sixteen in the dark, but wouldn't in the cold light of day. If she really annoyed Maurice, he would hand her over to the social services as being out of control, and she would end up in care. Her past history would not stand her in good stead. She couldn't see any alternative – she would stay and get gloomy like Myra, and pretend she didn't want for anything. A nice house, good food…

“Oh Christ! I can't!” she screamed out loud.

She launched herself off the ha-ha and fell in a heap in the grass ditch, nearly breaking her ankles. Pity it wasn't her neck! She lay and sobbed where no one could see her. Or hear her. She didn't care. She hadn't cried since she was little, but now it didn't matter. There was no one.

“Have you hurt yourself?”

Startled, Tessa turned her head and saw a horse's legs and the underneath of a bay horse's belly. It was just like when she was little in the fields at home, looking up at the broodmare, Shiner. It shook her into silence.

She scowled.

“No!”

She scrambled up to prove it and stood back to the wall.

The bay thoroughbred was carrying a young man. The horse was spooky and nervous, but the man sat with the quiet authority of a very good rider.

“Just making sure. No offence,” he said, and the horse moved away. The young man didn't look back. Thank heaven for that! Tessa thought. His lack of curiosity was brilliant.

Having given in to tears, been discovered, and thought of nothing constructive for her future, Tessa went back to the house in a bad temper.

At supper she cheeked Maurice and was banished to her room. She watched television until two o'clock in the morning.

The next morning Maurice stormed in, ordered her to get up – because she was starting a job.

“What job?”

Maurice didn't reply.

She went down to breakfast and said again, “What job?'

Greevy jeered and said, “Dad's thought of a great idea. You work for these people and however bad you are and however much they loathe you they can't give you the sack because Dad owns their place and all their land. They fall out with him and they've had it.”

This was actually not true but Tessa was not to know it. He might own their place but tenants' rights were powerful.

“Bit like you at Raleigh's then,” she retorted. “If Raleigh falls out over you he'll lose your dad's horses.”

“Yeah, well, I'm going to a proper place. You're going to a dung-heap.”

Maurice said, “Go and get in the car. George will run you there. I've made the arrangements. Nine till six, six days a week.”

“Where? Where's this job?”

“A farm down the valley. It's called Sparrows Wyck.”

“What have I got to do?”

“Whatever they tell you. They've got horses, cows… God knows. Just behave yourself, keep out of my hair, till the Education lot find another place for you in September.”

“What hair ?” Tessa retorted.

“Hop it. Get your jacket. George is waiting.” Maurice's colourless eyes glittered.

Tessa was furious. If she had found a job for herself she might have been quite pleased, but to have been tossed into one like this, at Maurice's command, outraged her. If he thought she was going to toe the line he could think again.

She fetched her dirty anorak and slouched out to the car.

Sparrows Wyck was two miles away down the valley she had been staring at the day before. Two miles across the fields but four miles round by the road. Today it was raining slightly and a soft mist lay over the bottom of the valley.

“People been there all their lives,” George said. “Very close family. They don't take kindly to strangers.”

He turned the shining white car into a narrow, pot-holed lane.

“Hope I'm not going to do this drive every day.”

“Don't worry, you won't. I'm not staying.”

“No. Can't think what they'll find for you to do in a set-up like theirs. The old man must've bribed them to take you. The woman runs the house – worse than Mrs Tims, she is. Mouth like a rat-trap. And the outside work – it's not for a shrimp of a girl like you. The boys do that.”

“What boys?” Tessa showed slightly more interest.

“Boys to me, love. Old men to you – gone twenty, thirty, for sure. The sons of the house.”

“Huh!”

Tessa shrugged down into her seat, watching the wind-screen wipers clearing a vision of high hedges and fields of thick grass. The buildings when they came to them were like Declan's in Ireland – a yard of decrepit stables with patched roofs and chewed half-doors, a row on either side. A gate shut the yard off from the lane. At the top were hay sheds, now nearly empty.

“I'll put you down here then,” George said, obviously not keen to meet anyone. “Your father said you're to walk home.”

“He's not my father,” Tessa snapped.

“Lordy, you've both got the same temper,” George said mildly.

Tessa wanted to say sorry, but the word was impossible for her. She screwed herself out of the car and slammed the door. George backed away and disappeared round a bend in the lane.

There was no one around. Most of the stables were empty. Four were occupied by thoroughbred-looking horses contentedly eating hay. The only sound was of their quiet munching and the running of the rain in the gutters.

“What a dump!” thought Tessa.

She wandered up and found a door at the back of the haybarn that opened into another yard. More stables, tractor sheds and a house. The house was old and forlorn, humped against the rain, a curl of old-fashioned smoke blowing from its chimney. After Goldlands this was another world. Tessa, although she liked old places, was angry at being dumped in this scene of dereliction. She thought of Greevy smarming it in the pristine yards at Mr Raleigh's, where it was all polished shoes and uniform sweatshirts. The contrast made her prickle with rage. She would get herself the sack as soon as possible.

Gritting her teeth, she crossed over to the house and knocked on the back door. She could not escape the fact that she was nervous, even frightened. But the feeling was all too familiar. There was a porch full of dirty gumboots and dirtier jackets and a cardboard box that looked as if a dog slept in it. As no one answered she went in and knocked on the inner door. Through the glass panel she could see several people sitting round a table eating breakfast.

Her throat felt dry. A man turned round and shouted something. She opened the door and went in. They all stopped eating and stared at her. Tessa had never felt so small in her life.

There were three men and two women. No one said anything. They just stared. It was quite plain they didn't want her here.

“I –” But Tessa found she could not speak. All the spunk was knocked out of her.

They started eating again and resumed the conversation she had interrupted. As if she wasn't there. One of the women, who looked fiftyish, answered George's description with a “mouth like a rat-trap”. (And eyes like flint, Tessa would have added, the way they appraised her.) The younger woman, a hunky, black-haired twenty-something, gave her a dubious look and dropped her eyes again to her bacon and eggs, as did one of the younger men. The oldest man carried on eating without even looking at her, but the other man gave her a wink and made the faintest gesture with his head to an empty chair that was half pulled up to the table. A brindle-coloured lurcher lay under the table at his feet.

He was the man she had seen on the horse the day before.

Tessa thought, Damn them all, and marched firmly to the chair and sat down. She could play the same game too. Ask no questions. They all ignored her and continued eating and talking. The talk was of milking parlours, getting rid of rats, and schooling horses. The appetites were large and copious mugs of tea were being emptied. The man on the horse fetched another mug from the dresser and poured tea which he pushed in Tessa's direction. The others glared at him. Tessa was beginning to enjoy herself, seeing a situation here worthy of her talents. She wasn't going to stay, whatever happened, not with this load of country cretins. She could give them worse treatment than they could give her. She was better practised.

When they had finished they all got up save the older woman and went out, shrugging into anoraks and boots. The door slammed, the rain dripped outside the window from a broken gutter, a cock crowed from somewhere. Tessa went on sitting.

The woman said sharply, “What's your name?”

“Tessa.”

“Your father said—”

“He's not my father. I'm Tessa Blackthorn. Not Morrison.”

The woman shrugged.

“Clear these pots away and get outside. They'll give you a job.”

“Good,” said Tessa.

She went out, ignoring the pots. There was a milking parlour behind the house and the cows were filing out into the fields. The smell was of home, a long time ago. But she wasn't going to fall for that kind of sentiment. They hated her, she could see, and that suited her.

She went back to the stable yard where the woman was wheeling a barrow towards the occupied stables. Tessa stood watching her, offering nothing.

The woman opened one of the doors and went in to the horse. She tied it up and started mucking out.

Tessa leaned against the door.

After a few forkfuls the woman said, “What's your name?”

“Tessa.”

“Did your father run you down here? It's quite a walk.”

“He's not my father. He's my stepfather.”